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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29929173">Chasin' it down</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumjar/pseuds/cumjar'>cumjar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Popee the Performer (Anime)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Animal Abuse, Animal Instincts, Character Study, Circus, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Heavy Angst, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Not Shippy, Tags May Change</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:02:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>485</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29929173</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumjar/pseuds/cumjar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s what separated the strong from the weak, after all, and if being human was strength, Onomadek’d force herself to be the very best at it with what she had been personally taught.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Chasin' it down</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title is from "Chasing It Down," from Mother Mother's Eureka album! This is part two of my series thus far.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Yellow eyes track the shape of him with the predatory focus of any alpha: slow, at first, then steady. Unwavering and unrelenting in a sort of self-contained hunger that thrums through her as sure as the rumble from an explosion, a slowly fizzing wick of guaranteed hunger like shrapnel tearing through her. It would be so easy to assume that ferality is her driving force- it’s what anyone thought of a snarling wolf, after all. As something to subdue, something to bar away, to <em>muzzle-</em></p>
<p>It didn’t matter what they thought, the blonde, her boss, when the only one who could know for sure was none other than her target. Onomadek didn’t come here often, having found the damned mirror itself to be downright unnatural, at least, in comparison to what else she’s seen lurking around the oddities of the circus, staring into another world so close and yet so far from her own and wondering, fearing, if it would be the very thing to contain her. </p>
<p>But did it truly matter which side Onomadek was on when either way, she’d be trapped? </p>
<p>He’s not prepared, not really, for the fury of a pent-up beast hunting the same prey over and over. Onomadek’s never been one for books, especially when it was much more fun to snatch them from purple mittens, a taunting grin twisting at the sight of tears bubbling in sky-blue eyes, but she had read up on zoology and animal performers: she knows it well beyond whatever threadbare menagerie of one the Zurkus advertised: elephants in frilly outfits surrounded by smiling clowns, Eepop had pointed them out to her with a tentative smile when Onomadek only snarled back at her, knowing that it all was besotted by a bloody backdrop of bullhooks, read of things like-</p>
<p><em>Enrichment.</em><br/>
<br/>
Tossing toys at a caged animal in hopes that their eyes dulled, that boredom and monotony of the same three toys would spur them into complacency, to be the best performer they can be. A life of bored misery, that, really Onomadek’s never been satisfied with. She could resign herself to digging her teeth into proffered necks, to her baser instincts, but the pink-furred wolf had never been interested in the bloodshed of bestial fury, of the natural detachment between predator and prey. </p>
<p>She tells him as such, the yellow eyes of her mask glowing eerily under the pale light of the full moon above. The bomb in her hand thrums with potential, with destruction that could only be described as human- her bombs personally chosen from a bloodied arsenal of those who could create something from nothing, who had the attention to detail from the welting lash of a whip to the chains of a collar. All of it, all of the carnage and tearing, the burning of forests, the smog in the air ensure nothing but incremental progress. <br/>
<br/>
It's only human, after all. </p>
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